


Please Believe Me When I Say I Love You

by darnedchild



Series: Molly Hooper Appreciation Week Winter 2017 [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Molly Hooper Appreciation Week, Sherlolly - Freeform, day 3: february 14th, probably fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 14:14:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9753752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darnedchild/pseuds/darnedchild
Summary: A short fic for Molly Hooper Appreciation Week Part Deux - Day 3 - Valentine's Day/Galentine's Day/Single's Awareness Day (Fanworks focusing on one of the holidays celebrated February 14th) References Series 4 and TFP.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I’m going to be honest. Today was a mentally exhausting day and this fic probably suffered for it. I’m too tired to even give it a second read through, sorry.

  
  


Molly stared down at the single pink rose that had been left on the computer keyboard. The office door had been locked, as was her habit when she left for lunch, and there was no other sign that anything else had been touched. There were two other pathologists who shared the office and computer with her, depending on who was on shift at any given moment, and they also had keys to the room. The department head had a fourth, and then maintenance probably had one. It was possible anyone of them had come by, but why leave a rose?

An annoyed (and obnoxiously hopeful) voice at the back of her head reminded her that there was at least one other person who wouldn’t have let a locked door stop him if he’d wanted access to her office, but Molly told that voice to bugger off. He wouldn’t have left a rose, either.

Things were better between her and Sherlock after the Phone Call, it had been nearly a year after all. (She always thought of it that way, capitalized like that, as if she’d ever confuse it with any other call.) They were so close to the way things had been before that she almost forgot their friendship had nearly crumbled into dust.

(That was a lie. She had never forgotten. Would never forget the moment, the exact moment, when she had laid her heart out bare to the one man who held the power to destroy it and then held herself still as she waited for the devastating blow that never came. Instead she’d heard a quiet click of the call disconnecting. Somehow, that had hurt even worse.)

To his credit, Sherlock had insisted on explaining all of it to her in person rather than passing the responsibility on to John or Greg (or even Mycroft, since he had witnessed the entire thing apparently). He had come to her home the day after the Phone Call and waited on her doorstep until she agreed to let him in. She’d made him tea, both of them hiding behind a polite façade that would crumble at the first stiff breeze. 

He’d told her about his secret sister. About the way she’d infiltrated his and John’s life, pretending to be a client and John’s therapist; there was something else in there that he did not say but she let it go. About his childhood friend. (Molly had felt the need to dump out her cold tea and fill her cup with a hefty amount of red wine at that point.) And finally, finally, he began to tell her of the twisted funhouse of horrors Eurus had set up for the three men. How she drove a man to suicide to save his wife, how she killed the woman anyway. The three brothers that were dropped into the sea. Pushing Sherlock to choose between his best friend or his only brother.

Molly listened through it all, and silently waited. It didn’t take a Holmes sibling to understand that the call and her confession of love must have been another of Eurus’ tests, but she wanted to hear it from Sherlock. Wanted him to tell her what the point of the exercise was, why had Eurus needed to hurt her so badly. Why her?

“Because you matter.”

Molly’s heart had sped up, and she silently cursed the treacherous organ. She’d heard it all before, pushed through the hope and disappointment before. She’d do it again. Somehow. “You said she knew Moriarty? Did he . . . tell her about me? But he didn’t know about my help when you jumped. I mean, he was dead, so how did she know? Was this meant to be some kind of revenge?”

Sherlock had stared down at his cold cup of tea. “Revenge, yes. But not against you. I doubt Eurus viewed Moriarty’s death as anything more than a mild inconvenience. I told you, Molly, you matter.” He’d looked up then, his pale eyes meeting hers for the first time since she’d opened the door. “To me.”

“So you’ve said.” She’d jumped to her feet and hurried around the kitchen counter to rinse her cup in the sink, she didn’t want the wine to leave a stain inside the yellow mug. She had watched the water flow down the drain and gathered her thoughts. “I can’t do this right now. Thank you, for telling me all this, but I can’t-can’t hear you say that you care about me when we both know it isn’t the same as what I feel for you.”

“Molly-“

She had turned then, leaning back against the counter, her hands gripping the edge so hard her fingers turned white. “I’m not an idiot, Sherlock. I’ve always know I’d never be the one for you, and I learned to live with that long ago. We both knew. No, don’t shake your head at me, you knew. You knew and you just didn’t want to acknowledge it, and I was happy to let you pretend because it meant I didn’t have to cut you out of my life. And then your sister happened and now the charade is over, and I need time to figure out what that means for me.”

His expression had gone blank, like a mask had dropped over his face. “You need time.”

“If you want us to remain friends, then I need time. In my head I know that nothing has really changed just because the words are out there in the open now; but my heart tells me to run and hide and protect myself, and I can’t do that with you nearby.”

The mask had remained in place, but Molly thought she’d seen a flash of sorrow in his eyes. “You need to-to protect yourself . . . from me.”

He’d done as she asked. He waited nearly six weeks before sending a text to ask if it would be all right for him to come to the morgue while she was working, adding that it could wait until the shift change if she’d prefer.

They had taken it slow from there. It was another month before he asked if she’d take a look at one of his experiments in the lab and offer her opinion. Two more weeks after that when she’d brought an extra cup of coffee (black, two sugars) back from her lunch and silently left it on the corner of his work table.

Sometimes she thought she could feel him watching her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention, but he was always doing something else whenever she looked up. Wishful thinking on her part, obviously.

But here they were now. Able to work together in the lab. Sherlock popping into the morgue as if he owned the place again, and Molly indulgently letting him. Take-away at Baker Street or her house once a week if there wasn’t a case to call him away or a late night shift at Barts to fill. Sherlock insisted on coming over while she was watching Rosie and then laughing when she’d invariably catch him rolling around on floor with the little girl.

It was almost the exactly the way the way they’d been before everything went to hell . . . and yet, somehow better. 

So close to everything she’d ever wanted, which made it all the more bittersweet.

She reached out and brushed her finger against one of the velvet soft rose petals, allowing herself to believe it was from him for just a moment. She waited for the ache of what would never be to settle into her heart, but there was only a small flicker of contentment. 

Her lips curled into a tiny smile. She loved Sherlock and he did care about her. He’d made that very clear over the last eleven months, even though they’d never talked about the Phone Call again.

It finally occurred to her that in his own unique way, he might even . . . 

“Love me,” she whispered to herself.

“I do, you know.”

Molly shrieked and spun around to see Sherlock standing in the office doorway. 

“Among several other things, a pink rose is supposed to mean ‘please believe me’, according to the internet search I did. Red seemed too clichéd, especially considering the date, and yellow didn’t quite seem to match the message I wanted to convey.” He had his hands clasped behind his back. As she watched, he rocked back on his heels and she realized he was nervous. 

She took a deep breath. “What do you want me to believe?”

“When I said, when I told you that I . . . loved you that second time, I meant it. I tried to tell you when we talked that day, I wanted to make you understand how much you mattered to me; but it was too soon, too raw. You needed space, and I understood that.” His eyes pleaded with her, silently asking her to believe him. “I know you probably aren’t ready to hear it again, but please believe me when I say I love you.”

Molly held out her hand and he quickly closed the distance between them. “I do.”


End file.
